


pain, penance, birthright

by sirfeit



Series: go home, or make a home [4]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Gen, Horses, Hurt/Comfort, Ice Nation - Freeform, Power Imbalance, Revenge, Tattoos, Trigedasleng, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-06-07 00:15:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6776083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirfeit/pseuds/sirfeit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murphy has completed his mission, but is still stuck between the worlds of Skaikru and Polis. The Coalition calls on his services. Bellamy returns from his exile. Also Murphy can ride a horse now.</p><p>---<br/>Murphy is taken upstairs to a bedroom and given an assortment of warm clothes -- what are the chances Polis would give him twenty of these for wintertime, for the dropship? slim, probably, he doesn’t get to ask for payment for services rendered -- and given a crash course in How the Ice Nation Works. Here’s the gist of it: the Ice Nation is a monarchy, sometimes it’s called Azgeda for no reason, it’s full of ice and it’s very cold. Whatever. He’s got it down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. not without theseus

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from "[helping hands](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4058782)" by zade: "It is like everything else: pain, penance, birthright."

He becomes Persephone. He ate a pomegranate seed once: it was both tangy and sweet, which is kind of a metaphor for his life, maybe? Look, he’s never been good with language.

He spends half his time in Polis and the other at the dropship, camped out beyond Arkadia. Or - he stays with Clarke, at least, whenever she switches, so maybe she’s Persephone, and he’s whatever follows her. _Lukotwar. Mofi kom skaikru. John Murphy._ Once, the Commander had asked her something, and Clarke, laughing, looking behind her to his face, had said “ _Not without Theseus,_ ” and he had smiled back at her like he knew what she was talking about, like that was a private joke between them.

At the dropship, what he thinks of as post-Arkadia, he doesn’t work to build a fence; he works on building shelters against the coming winter, he goes on hunting parties, he directs hand-to-hand combat lessons with Octavia and Lincoln. They’re halved by Arkadia as well; spending their time partly at the dropship and partly wherever else they go.

He keeps his friends close and Monty a little farther away. It’s a good life. He settles.

And that’s his first mistake.

\---

Every day, Bellamy wakes up and he thanks the one person who has helped him most in life: Kathleen. Kathleen: her work on a Grounder dictionary, Kathleen, worrying her hands, saying, “I just, you know, I think their culture is _fascinating_ , a whole different perspective on the world?” Octavia was dismissive of the whole thing: Kathleen only wants to observe Grounders, never become one of them. But Kathleen showed him her Grounder dictionary, the dialect she calls _Trigedasleng_ , and he thanks her every day that she let him look at it.

Moss only speaks Trigedasleng. He’s short and clipped while they’re still on land, but once they board a boat and get out onto the open water, he talks like he’s alive again, like he’s loosening out from a long term of captivity.

Oshokru - the Ocean People - is an island in the middle of the sea. Here are the things he will remember about Oshokru: the sun-kissed shore, the taste of salt on everything, children rushing to show him their bracelets made of colored shells, the way their teeth are studed with tiny plaques of metal, shell, or bright stone; how their dead lose their names: “Ai nontu no tag in,” says Moss, serious and sober. _My family has no name._ And the names of the Oshokru that still exist in this world: Eiven, Hathin, Lohan.

He forgets being a soldier; only exists here, in this moment, in this collection of moments. He doesn’t learn to fight. He learns how to make nets, how to catch fish, how to be still. It’s the sunlight. It’s the rain. It’s the water. He thinks he could be happy here.

And one day Moss taps Bellamy on the shoulder and says, _let’s go_. And Bellamy follows him back to the boat, and they sail back to land. Prosper is there to meet them.

Prosper embraces his brother.“Biyo moba yu kep in gon we,” he says. _I’m sorry you had to leave_.

Moss shrugs. He is always easy, even here, in Polis, which Bellamy knows he hates. “Hou es weron ai mounin hou yu,” he replies. _Home is wherever I’m with you_. And he aches for Octavia, in his bones, in his teeth, in his narrow but still-beating heart.

He does his best not to cry. Whether he’s successful; that’s anyone’s guess.

\---

His second mistake is trusting Clarke.

He’s doing his usual thing in Polis; attend a smattering of meetings, saying nothing, riding a borrowed horse through the woods, sticking like a shadow to Prosper’s side. Prosper’s teaching him how to fight. He understands he’s a little better than Moss is.

Except Prosper isn’t available.

So he bothers Clarke. And Clarke says, “The king of the Ice Nation wants to speak with you,” and he says “Yeah,” but it’s not like he’s paying attention.

And then he’s in a room with Clarke and the king of Azgeda, and the king is saying, “I want you to kill the Ice Nation nightblood, Ontari.”

“No thanks, I’m good.”

Clarke makes a small coughing sound. They both cut their eyes to her. “You are the _lukotwar_ of the Coalition; if the Commander believes that killing one person would benefit the Coalition, you’re the one to do it.”

So he becomes Persephone after all, except Polis has never been his hell. And there’s no Demeter to change the seasons out of sadness when he leaves.

\---

Prosper brings him back to the dropship. There’s a camp there now, made entirely out of Delinquents: he feels his heart swell with pride, even when they look at him with disgust, with betrayal. Within the hour, Clarke arrives on a horse; Murphy is riding behind her, hands wrapped around her waist. He has grown in the summer he spent here; taller, stronger. Not so damaged. _You clean up nicely._

He feels -- _something_. They both dismount. Clarke says something to Murphy, he laughs, and then he looks up to see Bellamy. Stalks over to him. “I’m sorry,” Bellamy says to him, like he can apologize for the things he’s done, for being a soldier, for following the wrong man.

Murphy shakes his head. “Do I still have you?” he says, and Bellamy had forgotten: Murphy kneeling by his cage in Polis, blood all across his face. _I’ve lost everything._

“Yeah,” he says again. “You’ve still got me.”

Murphy gives him a clipped nod, and then points to a shelter on the edge of camp. “That’s where I live,” he says. “You’re sleeping there.”

He feels unmoored, like Moss has pulled back the anchor from the boat and now they are floating into the blueness of the sea. He pulls out the shell necklace he was working on when they left, holds it out to Murphy. “Here,” he says. “This is for you.”

Murphy takes it, presses the shell until it makes an imprint into his palm. He pulls it over his head. The shell rests just above his breastbone. “Thanks,” he says, and then pushes past him to talk to Prosper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to The Sequel! updates will probably not be breakneck, because it is Film Season and i am Back To Business.
> 
> names from Oshokru borrowed from Frances Hardinge's book, "Gullstruck Island", or, if you're American, the book is also called "The Lost Conspiracy". this is one of my favorite books, please check it out of your local library. the whole "not without theseus" thing is a weird callback to how Theseus came to rescue Persephone from the underworld, but also a reference to Continuum, a television show that you can watch on Netflix!
> 
> are you digging this fic? let me know! i accept kudos, comments, and pizza.


	2. bygones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roan briefs Murphy for his mission. Bellamy settles into post-Arkadia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check out this filler chapter

He wishes Prosper had stayed longer. He wishes he had asked about being the Coalition’s lukotwar, about what that implies. Clarke had given him a confusing answer about being neither Skaikru nor Grounder, but the blood of the Coalition. But if Bellamy has returned, that means Moss has as well, so Prosper is gone.

He thought he was done with this. But he didn’t really believe that, did he? He kept following Clarke to Polis. He kept going to meetings. Jeez.

It doesn’t matter. Clarke told the king they wouldn’t send Murphy to the Ice Nation until ‘the first leaf turns to gold’, which is presumably the beginning of fall, so what, he has weeks? Days? Hours? It doesn’t matter. He’s put it off, and until then, there’s work to do. There’s always more work to do.

He needs to make his house livable for two people. He has to prepare for winter.

\---

Murphy’s shelter is at the edge of camp, away from the others. Most of the space is taken up by a rescued metal bunk bed, but there’s a desk and a bulletin board squeezed into the corner. Murphy is engaged in the task of removing objects from the bottom bunk; unfinished projects, miscellaneous junk, most of his wardrobe. Bellamy watches him. At long last, Murphy looks up. “You tired?” he asks. Bellamy shrugs. Murphy sighs. “You can take bottom bunk,” he says. “Storage space is underneath that bed. Sorry it’s such a mess. If you’re not going to sleep, go find Lincoln or Octavia -- winter is coming, we’re going to need all the help we can get.”

“Okay,” says Bellamy. “Thanks.”

Murphy leaves him there. He lets everything go.

When Bellamy catches his eye, he almost says _Bygones_ , but. But. He’s not going to tempt fate.

\---

A week passes, and then another. Easy, easy. Bellamy blends into the shadows, the background, like he’s always been there. It’s no bother.

Murphy feels on edge all the time. There’s so much to do before winter, before the first snow hits. Lincoln says they have warm winters here, with only some snow, but whatever Lincoln considers “some snow” is more than they’re prepared for.

And then Clarke is at his door, knock-knock-knocking which is pointless because she’s already at the threshold. “Hey,” she says. “Time to go. Pack your stuff.”

He needs more _time_. He can’t do this again. He groans and pulls the blankets over his head. Clarke is at the foot of his bed, then she’s standing next to the ladder. “Bellamy, can you --”

The blankets are pulled away. It’s chillier in the mornings now, and the cold has seeped into the cabin since Clarke probably left the door open. He sits up. “I’m not going,” he tells her.

Clarke cuts her eyes to Bellamy, who is standing up now, next to her. If it came down to it, he would probably follow Clarke’s lead. She tries to reason with him first. “The Coalition needs you,” she tells him. Like he cares. “Without the Coalition, we’re all as good as dead. You’re _important_.”

“Shut up,” he tells her, tired already. They’re united against him.

She half-turns to Bellamy. “Go get Prosper,” she tells him, and. And. He doesn’t know if anyone would come to his aid if he fought her, and he doesn’t want to test that theory. In the long run, he would prefer to stay allies with the Grounders. He just. He doesn’t want to do _this._

“Stop,” he grinds out, and slides off the bed, landing on the dirt floor. He pulls on a sweatshirt. Bellamy hovers at the threshold. “Get out,” he snarls at Bellamy, and he flees. To Clarke: “I’m already packed, I just want to talk to Octavia before we head out, yeah?”

“Sure,” she says. “I’m following you though, yeah?”

“Whatever.” Honestly, _fuck_ Clarke.

\---

Before he leaves, Octavia pulls him into a hug. He stiffens, and can’t return it. He tries to give her a smile. It doesn’t really work out. She laughs at him. He doesn’t really say goodbye to anyone else. He tells himself he’ll be back soon.

He swipes an apple from the table and takes his damn sweet time feeding it to Clarke’s horse.

\---

They get to Polis. He wants to go up to his room and back to sleep, but Clarke pulls him through the halls to the Commander and the Ice King. So it’s starting now, then. Okay. Whatever. He can take it. He has to take it.

It’s a challenge. Get excited about it.

It’s what’s kept him alive. That’s all.

The Ice King is talking. “We’re setting you up as a double agent between Skaikru and the Ice Nation,” he tells Murphy. “You’ll spend half your time at your camp or here in Polis, and half your time in the Ice Nation. I don’t care about any information you have on Skaikru, I don’t want a war. Ontari does: she is interested in wiping Skaikru off the map. I don’t think she has any investment in it herself, but my mother did, and so Ontari follows. She’s a good fighter; she was trained all her life by my mother, so I wouldn’t take her out head-on. Get close to her. She -- likes to look down on people. Get her to underestimate you.”

“Okay,” says Murphy. He has no skill or training at this. Everything’s come to him out of pure luck. He’s never had any kind of plan.

But he'll survive this.

Like he always does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did so much research on horses for this chapter and none of it shows. anyhow i'm super glad that i don't have to ride a horse to get anywhere and that i live in the 21st century and none of my livelihood depends on horses. 
> 
> thank you to everyone who commented on ch1, your words have carried me to the end of this chapter, and i appreciated them dearly. still liking this? i accept kudos, comments, and signed copies of War and Peace. thanks for reading!
> 
> edit 5/10/2016: does the ending of this chapter look different than when you first read it? I moved some things around, sorry! the change from chapter 2 to chapter 3 should be better now. sorry for the bother and/or confusion!


	3. winter is coming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murphy and Clarke prepare for entering the Ice Nation. Bellamy talks to Octavia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey there! some warnings for this chapter for suicidal ideation and some physical abuse, as well as dissociation. things get worse for murphy before they get better.

Murphy is taken upstairs to a bedroom and given an assortment of warm clothes -- what are the chances Polis would give him twenty of these for wintertime, for post-Arkadia? slim, probably, he doesn’t get to ask for payment for services rendered -- and given a crash course in How the Ice Nation Works. Here’s the gist of it: the Ice Nation is a monarchy, sometimes it’s called Azgeda for no reason, it’s full of ice and it’s very cold. Whatever. He’s got it down.

Then someone else comes in and tries to teach him Grounder language, and that’s never going to go anywhere, so he puts his head on the desk and he’s asleep again in moments.

Clarke shakes him awake. He bursts into consciousness. “You have a good nap?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says, and then, before he can really think about it -- she’s already mad at him, he shouldn’t -- “Listen, can I have warm blankets and stuff from Polis for the dropship? Winter is coming, and I --”

“No,” says Clarke. “Come over here and take off your shirt.”

Okay. He sits awkwardly on the edge of the chair. Clarke is spreading out the tools of her med kit on the table next to the it. He’s still stuck on warm clothes and _winter is_ _coming._ “Look,” he says, and he’s not thinking, he’s not _thinking_ ; “just because you abandoned us to live with your Grounder girlfriend doesn’t mean that everything’s fixed, that everything’s fine now --”

She hits him. Open-handed, across the face.

Ow. Leans over, away from Clarke. Phlegm/blood/pain. Spits.

He kind of deserved that. He knows when to shut up.

Clarke is cool, calm, collected. “I didn’t _abandon_ you,” she says. “I was fighting for peace, for Polis to not _eradicate_ all of Arkadia.”

“Right, and you used me to do that, and now it’s over, and now Arkadia is a fucking mess because of Jaha’s City of Light and because they apparently don’t understand elections or whatever anymore, and nobody at the dropship is going to survive winter!” Nope. He doesn’t know when to shut up. His face is warm where she slapped him, his hands have curled into fists. He should hit her back. They’re on even ground. He’s standing up. He can hurt her worse with words. “And you’re the leader, and you’ve just been _gone_ , and even when you do go back all you do is patch people up and then leave, and Bellamy hasn’t been around because he murdered like a zillion people and then I exiled him, and if I have to go to the Ice Nation and kill some other person, I won’t be around for them either, and I just --” Just stop, Murphy. You’ve played enough of your hand. He catches his voice back into his throat and wishes he had done so earlier.

Clarke takes a deep breath, lets it out. She tells him something unknowable about Ice Nation and Ice Nation being politically weak but having a great army, so if he kills Ontari, the Coalition will ??? have an army??? Or whatever?

Murphy matches her sigh. “I don’t care about armies, Clarke. I just want the dropship to survive winter. I’m useful there, I want --”

“You don’t get _terms_ , Murphy. You are the _lukotwar_ of the Coalition. You do this or you die, you won’t choose death and you won’t choose more pain. You’ll do what you need to do to ensure your survival, and you’ll stop _fucking around._ ”

And. She’s right. She’s _right_ , and he hates her, and he hates this, and he’ll keep doing it. He lets her tattoo something onto his right shoulderblade, another redemption, another time limit. He wishes he was dead. _You’ve still got me._ He wishes he was dead.

He could throw himself off the tower. He could jump through the window.

“Cuff him,” he can hear Clarke saying before she leaves, and there’s someone at his ankle again. He automatically rolls up his pant leg. “S _ou nou teik em wan op._ ”

He feels numb. He tugs the chain. He puts his shirt back on. He lies down on the bed.

His shoulders shake. His face feels wet. It’s easy to fall asleep again.

\---

He doesn’t see Octavia until the afternoon after Murphy leaves. She’s probably been avoiding him. That’s okay. He sits next to her by the fire. “Hey, O,” he says, before she can get up and move away.

“Hey,” she says.

“I made you this bracelet,” he tells her. “It’s got four different kinds of shells on it.”

“Oh,” she says, taking it. It’s one of his better works. “Thanks,” she says.

“I missed you,” he says.

“Yeah,” she says, and then she leaves him there by the fire, alone.

\---

“This was easier when you were afraid of me,” says Clarke, and she’s by his bed.

He sits up. “You think I’m not still?” he asks. Their easy friendship is gone, pulled away in seconds. He’s already bitter about it. He misses it _: not without Theseus,_ sunwarm days, riding together on Clarke’s horse. It was a good time. He doesn’t reach for it back.

“I’m sorry, Murphy,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

_You’ve still got me._

Doesn’t do him any good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> endnotes  
> sou nou teik em wan op - don't let him die
> 
> your kudos and comments, as always, mean the world to me.
> 
> (things get better next chapter, promise! but i am currently working on a film, so i cannot tell you when it will be posted.)


	4. yu fir raun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murphy doesn't whine for no good reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do u know how much time i've spent on horse forums

It rains, heavy and hard over Polis. The temperature drops significantly, and he spends his time huddled underneath the blankets on his bed.

Nobody comes by with food. The chain isn’t long enough for him to reach the door: nobody comes when he yells himself hoarse. And. Here it is: he will do whatever they want as long as they don’t keep him trapped in here forever. He will kill whoever Clarke and the Commander want killed as long as he gets out of here. He’s reached his limit, and it was pathetically easy.

It’s the second day when Moss comes for him. He’s grown over the course of the summer: he’s about the same size as Murphy is, now. He’s still bright-eyed and easy, and he still speaks _absolutely no English_. He sits next to Murphy on the bed and tells him a story, maybe? He’s pretty sure Moss says _Belomi_ a couple of times, so it’s probably an entertaining story of Bellamy fucking up. It doesn’t really mean anything to him.

Then Moss bends to unlock the cuff from his ankle. Freedom.

Not really.

“Mafta ai op,” Moss tells him, and then beckons. He follows Moss down the stairs and across Polis; they arrive at the stables. Everything is wet and cold. Moss opens a door to a stall; inside is a huge black horse. “Daunde laik gapa,” he says. “Steltrona.” Steltrona. She’s beautiful.

He continues to not understand Trigedasleng, but he’s beginning to understand horses. He reaches out, knuckles first; Steltrona hrrfs into his hand and then leans forward. Her nose is soft against his skin, warmth against the rain.

“Steltrona gyon op gonagapa kom gou fotaim en gou goufagapa,” says Moss. “Em laik hainofi.” He considers that, revises. “No; em laik haiplana.” He shakes his head, then pets Steltrona’s flank. “Ron of, Mofi kom skaikru,” he says, sober.

Like, does Moss get that he doesn’t understand Trigedasleng? Bellamy picked it up pretty quick, he knows, and Clarke knows every Grounder word there is, probably, so maybe he thinks that Murphy just doesn’t like talking? He doesn’t know. He gives a shrug, hoping that will be enough.

Moss frowns at him. “Gonot,” he says. Murphy shrugs again.

Moss leaves Steltrona’s side, stands across from him, looks him in the eye. He reaches, grips Murphy’s shoulder, squeezes. “Yu fir raun,” he says.

“Thanks,” says Murphy, cold and grumpy and free and uncomprehending.

“Ai, lukotwar,” says Moss, and takes off again. Murphy follows.

\---

Moss takes him to the mess hall and indicates he should sit at the table. He sits, but when Moss gets up to go somewhere else, he follows again: Moss scolds? him and shoves him into his seat again. Okay. Whatever.

He should leave. He should take a horse and go back to the dropship, do all he can before the Commander comes for him again, make his final stand. He’s certain now that they won’t kill him, he’s too useful (and there’s the bite, yeah) but there would be a lot of pain coming his way. Until he gave in -- and he would, eventually. He always gives in.

He could go to the cave, in the woods. He could look for Emori. He never has, even though it’s been more than a half year since he saw her last: if she wanted to find him, she would have by now. But. Going to Polis is not a survivor’s move, not for people like her. Not for people like him, either, but hey! Too late for that now. They are two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and he took the one less travelled by.

It’s not like that. He can tell himself he doesn’t blame her all he wants, but here’s the truth: his reasons are entirely selfish for not returning to the cave. He doesn’t think he could stand himself for that long, being alone, waiting for her; if she never returned.

Someone slides into the chair across from him and his worried hands. It’s Tollak, a warrior who works? wars? hangs out? with Prosper sometimes. They’ve had a couple of bouts, here and there. He’s not sure that they’re close enough friends to eat in the same space together. He’s not sure he would classify them as ‘friends’ at all, for that matter.

Tollak considers him in full, and then says: “I heard you were going on another mission, yongon.”

It’s probably telling or whatever that Tollak doesn’t call him lukotwar, addresses him like an equal? a peer? he doesn’t know what the inflection is, and honestly right now he couldn’t care any more. Less? Whatever. “Yeah,” he says. “Top secret spy stuff, you know.”

Tollak obviously doesn’t know, because he says, “I heard you were going to citikru to kill Streisand and Kespea, for their rumored involvement in the kefa badannes.”

 _What._ He lets himself shrug. “Well,” he says, like he’s some kind of expert. “You know. Very secret and all.”

Moss arrives back at the table. He puts a mug -- that’s hot! -- in front of Murphy, and then _glares_ at Tollak until he mutters something about Things to Do and People to See and leaves. About time. Murphy takes a sip of the hot drink. It’s chocolate? It’s very good, but he doesn’t really understand how chocolate survived Alie’s nuclear whatevers. Well. Humans survived, it shouldn’t be that much of a surprise.

He thinks, suddenly, unreasonably, about Jasper, about Mount Weather. He wonders if he could ever get Jasper to come to Polis to drink this warm chocolate beverage. Probably not.

His stomach is starting to remember that it hasn’t eaten in a while. When he finishes the cocoa, Moss leaves with the mug - he can take care of his own dishes, it’s not like he hasn’t eaten in the mess hall a hundred times - and returns with a tray of food. “Thanks,” he tells Moss. Moss says something that might be a word or might be an agreeable noise.

After he’s finished eating, Moss takes him by the hand and to the village beyond the tower, shows him interesting plants, introduces him to Grounders he just happens to know and who also don’t seem to speak any English. Then: to the barracks again, where Murphy changes from wet clothes into Prosper’s dry ones. They’re strange on his skin, but not in a bad way. Too soon, Moss takes him back up to his room. Just inside, Moss hesitates, and then -- cups his face just on his jawline. “Mochof, lukotwar,” he says. Murphy feels a sudden, lurching feeling in his gut -- should he kiss Moss? He’s not sure he wants that, so instead he finds his fingers just below Moss’ wrist, crosses them. Warmth; a fluttering pulse. He needs to be careful.

Moss drops his hand. Murphy drops his.

“You can tell the Commander that I will be her _lukotwar_ ,” he hears himself say, and Moss nods.

Then he’s gone, and Murphy kind of wishes he wasn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mafta ai op - follow me  
> daunde laik gapa; steltrona. - that's your horse, a mythical horse that none can catch  
> steltrona gyon op gonagapa kom go fotaim en gou goufagapa - This mythical horse used to be a warrior's horse, but she got old and now she's a children's horse.  
> Em laik hainofi - She is a princess  
> No; em laik haiplana - She is a queen  
> ron of, mofi kom skaikru - Escape, Murphy (of the Sky People)  
> gonot - leave (urgent)  
> yu fir raun - You're fearless.  
> yongon - son, kid  
> citikru - Cathedral People, the Grounders that live in the ruined remains of New York City  
> kefa badannes - careful service  
> mochof, lukotwar - thank you, spy
> 
> kespea's name is part of 'shakespeare'  
> moss is great amiright (he's 16 btw)  
> @murphy it's called hot chocolate get it together
> 
> there's also another playlist if you're into that kind of thing - please note that there are Mild and Vague Spoilers in it! listen here: http://8tracks.com/latitude-b/lukotwar
> 
> thanks for reading! sorry this chapter was such a long time coming! let me know what you think by leaving a comment, a kudos -- they really do mean The World to me. or you can talk to me on tumblr at icetastrophe.tumblr.com!


	5. i don't scare easily

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murphy drinks some more hot chocolate and falls asleep on a horse. Bellamy has a conversation about forgiveness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> otp: hot cocoa for real

He packs for the Ice Nation; takes two changes of warm clothes, dresses himself in furs and heat. The Ice King waits for him by the stables; the rain has settled to a drizzle. He mounts Steltrona and she follows the Ice King’s horse. There’s no talking. Good.

The journey is hours long. The temperature drops further until he’s glad he wore the furs. He falls asleep in the saddle, rides like a sack of rocks. He wakes to Roan’s hand on his shoulder, pulling him off. Sharp flinch. Roan frowns. Sets him on his feet. Oof. It’s hard to stand, to stay steady. He leans on the wall for support. Someone leads the horses away -- _parting is such sweet sorrow that I would say good night until the morrow_ \-- he shoves his hands into his pockets and does his best to wake up. He might have made the decision to be their killer, but there’s a difference in agreeing to do something and actually doing it. He’s drowsy and unsettled and shivering. He misses the mane of Steltrona.

Roan nods to someone else. “Take him to his rooms,” he says, and tosses a metal? sphere to him. He catches it. It looks like a children’s toy: lit up around the edges with blue LEDs. “It’ll wake you in the morning,” he says to Murphy’s nonplussed face. “Be ready to attend to me.”

“Uh,” says Murphy. “Sure.”

He’s taken to a series of rooms that are way too fancy. In the wardrobe, there’s already clothes, so like, why did he even bother packing? They might be girl clothes though, so maybe this is the room of the dead queen? Did Roan mean to send him here? How is Roan even related to the dead queen? Like, was she his wife, or what?

There’s a girl in the doorway. She’s got scars all across her face; not like she’s been in a fight, but like Roan’s is scarred, like a ritual. Ice Nation stuff. She’s -- well, she’s very pretty. But she’s uncertainty personified; she can’t be much younger than him. And then her face _twists_ , and she’s got a knife to his throat. Whoa, there. This is probably Ontari.

“ _Ripawar_ ,” she hisses. “Who were you sent here to kill?”

Well, don’t tell her the truth, that’s for sure. “Roan kom Azgeda,” he says. Is that right? It better be right.

“I know that’s a lie,” she snarls, digging the knife in farther. “That's not his name. Speak truth.”

“ _Listen_ to me,” he says around the blade. “I was sent here by the Coalition, by the Commander herself. Roan thinks that I am here to kill you, but that’s not true. The Coalition wants Roan dead, because he doesn’t believe in you. The Commander wants a different Nightblood to take her throne, because the other ones were taught and influenced by the traitor Titus.” Nicely done, but is she gonna believe him?

The knife wavers. “And she sent a _skat_ to do the job?”

He pulls arrogance into his voice: “I’m the best damn _lukotwar_ Polis has ever seen, so, _yeah_ they sent me.”

She almost smiles. “You’re not afraid of me,” she says.

“I don’t scare easily,” he says. His voice is cool.

She lowers the knife.

\---

Ontari is smart and funny and very, very ambitious. She dreams of being the Commander because it’s what she’s been trained for all her life, and because “it’s my birthright”. She wants to wipe out Skaikru, which is fair; he’s certain if he allies himself with her that she’ll spare the dropship, and he doesn’t fucking care about Arkadia. She takes the sphere Roan had tossed at him and disassembles it into eight even parts, shows him how to modify it so that it will do what he wants. All it does is light up, play two different tones, and vibrate sometimes. He wants it to dispense a warm chocolate beverage. She doesn’t laugh at him so much as her laugh is embedded into her voice when she calls for someone to bring him hot chocolate. _Hot chocolate_. That makes sense.

He stays with her for three days, drinking hot cocoa, talking about how best to eradicate Skaikru, how to put her on the Commander’s throne, and he’s not fond of the current Commander but she wants Lexa’s approval so badly he can hear it in her words, and -- he thinks about kissing her; her windburned face, catching her bottom lip between his teeth -- Stop. Stop. Don’t wreck a good thing, Murphy. This alliance between them --

The Coalition can go fuck itself.

He follows the sun to ride back to the dropship.

He sleeps under the stars with Octavia and Lincoln that night, full of possibilities, second chances.

\---

In the morning, he gives the sphere to Raven, who is delighted. Striding across the courtyard, he runs into Clarke, who wants to talk enough that she matches her pace to his even when he visibly speeds up. “I’m leaving Polis this afternoon with Lexa to deal with the _kefa badannes_ ,” she tells him, which, good job, Clarke, great for you. “If you finish your mission before then, you’ll need to get someone else to complete your redemption tattoo.”

“Go fuck yourself, Clarke,” he tells her. _This was easier when you were afraid of me._

She scowls and lets him go.

\---

He’s doing his daily ritual of trying to reach out to Octavia with her rejecting him, which at this point doesn’t hurt so much. Or he’s become numb to it. Except this time, he sees Clarke at his periphery; when he goes back to his and Murphy’s shelter, she follows.

He doesn’t want to see her. He desperately wants to talk to her. She stands in the doorway. “Let me guess,” he says, and his voice is all bitterness. “You came here to fix things. _Wanheda_ the peacemaker.”

She blinks at him. “I came to see if you’re okay.”

“Well, I don’t need your help, Clarke,” he says, and then. Here it is. “I’ve lost her.”

“Give her time, Bellamy. There’s blood on your hands.” She steps towards him. They’re so close now. “Octavia will forgive you eventually. The question is: will you forgive yourself?”

He looks above, past her, to the courtyard, where Octavia is talking to Lincoln. She belongs here. “Forgiveness is hard for us,” he says.

“You know you’re not the only one trying to forgive yourself,” she says, and -- Mount Weather is always going to be shared between them. They’re always going to be connected by this, by death.

“I just know I have to live with what I’ve done,” he says, and they’re very close to each other now.

There’s a noise by the door. Murphy. He breaks out from Clarke’s gaze.

“You know, you have to screen all visitors by me first,” he says to Bellamy, but his voice isn’t angry; it’s cool, even, measured. He cuts his eyes to Clarke. “Why don’t you kiss him, then,” he tells her, vicious at last. “Kiss his pretty little mouth.”

He grabs something off the top bunk, and he’s gone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ripawar -- spy (enemy)  
> lukotwar -- spy (friend)  
> skat -- kid  
> kefa badannes -- careful service (a conspiracy/plot thing happening in citikru)
> 
> Ontari says "that's not his name" and it's not that Roan has a secret identity or anything, but that Murphy has the Trigedasleng wrong. Since Roan is royalty, he should be "Roan prom Azgeda". Also Azgeda's/Murphy's metal sphere is based off the time-travel device from Continuum, which looks kind of like a sectioned orange. It may or may not be important later, but the Ice Nation is more technologically advanced than you think. 
> 
> also you go murphy thinking on your feet. you've come a long way from "he stopped breathing, i was trying to help"
> 
> as always; your kudos and comments mean the world to me. thanks for reading! next time on pain, penance, birthright: murphy regrets riding so many horses, more weird technology probably, polis runs out of hot chocolate <3


	6. stay and take war counsel with me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murphy takes his revenge. Prosper and Bellamy grow closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for Terrible with Sexual Undertones. the two scenes involving it have asterisks instead of dashes. also, this chapter is Very Dark in general. also very long.
> 
> everything I know about kissing I learned from Twilight

He rides immediately back to Azgeda; the Ice Nation guards let him back in with little protest. He climbs the stairs, two at a time. He is so -- _angry_ , and he doesn’t really understand why -- just that he hates Clarke, and he hates Bellamy, and Polis, and the Commander. His revenge is brewing.

He’s at the threshold of Ontari’s room; he knocks. She opens the door; he wants her to like him so bad. He can’t risk her displeasure. “Why are you back so soon?” she asks.

“The Commander and Wanheda are leaving Polis. We can move on it tonight.” He’s been practicing that the whole ride over.

She gives him a half-smile. “First snow is tonight,” she says. “Stay and take war counsel with me, Mofi.” She opens the door wider.

“I --” he says, and his heart is in his throat. He’s pretty sure that _taking war counsel_ with her is not -- platonic. “We should ride now,” he says instead.

Her smile spreads. She steps forward. That’s a little close, Ontari. Her hands are to either side of his face; they’re soft against his skin. She presses in closer -- and -- she’s kissing him. He doesn’t -- This isn’t -- He can’t. This isn’t like saying no to Monty. He kisses her back, like he would Emori: sweet and soft and warm. She doesn’t match him: she’s the one that pulls away. “Let’s go,” she says, and she’s already down the hallway.

His face feels like the aftermath of a burn. He follows her.

\---

Ontari’s horse is white. Steltrona is exhausted from the ride there, so he leaves her in the stable and rides on Ontari’s horse with her; hands wrapped around her waist.

It has started to snow, but as they ride toward Polis it peters out: is it winter? is it fall? Seasons are weird. Ontari tells him something about how the night of the first snow is lucky, good for missions like this. He can hardly hear her over the hoofbeats.

They rent a room together in the little village outside Polis; they stable Ontari’s beautiful white horse and walk to the entrance on foot. Usually Murphy goes in through the side entrance and the Flamekeeper’s quarters, but there’s no reason for Ontari to know that. So they’re stopped by the guard at the main gate; he wants to know the usual stuff, like _why does an Ice Nation person want to come here;_ tensions between Polis and Ice Nation are still strained, he understands. She’s uncertain, and that uncertainty makes her scared; he watches as her hand goes for her sword.

He steps forward, in front of her. “She wants an audience with the Nightbloods,” he tells the guard, and his face clouds farther.

”Show me,” says the guard, but Ontari doesn’t move. She’s paralyzed with it. He takes her arm -- _gentle, gentle_ \-- and her eyes meet his. The smallest of nods: his knife meets the inside of her forearm; black blood wells up. The guard stares. “Come in,” he says. They enter into the anteroom at the bottom level of Polis. Then he says, “Wait here,” and leaves them.

Ontari wipes the blood off her arm; more swells up. “It’s better to talk your way out of a problem than to kill,” he tells her.

She lets out a little laugh. “That’s an interesting thing for a lukotwar to say,” she says. She takes a deep breath, and her voice goes imperious again.. “Go. Wait for me in the village. I’ll send for you.”

He glances at the door. “You sure?”

“Don’t question me,” she says, so he goes.

He takes a walk in the village. He goes to a cafe-type place and manages to score himself hot chocolate by ordering “whatever Moss usually gets”. A couple people recognize him, say appreciative Grounder things. He keeps his head down.

He thinks about the way she kissed him, hard and hungry and half-desperate. He thinks about killing her; of her black blood on his hands.

He’s not going to kill her.

When Clarke and the Commander come back from wherever the heck, she’ll be sitting on the Commander’s throne and he’ll be the one that put her there. Revenge.

They won’t take him for granted again.

\---

Bellamy has been going through Murphy’s unfinished projects, completing what he can, putting away what he can’t, or giving it to someone who might be able to. When he takes a bundle of wires/copper/optics to Raven, he’s startled to find Prosper there as well, arguing with her in a low but urgent voice. Raven’s shaking her head, so Bellamy puts a hand on Prosper’s back and: “Hey. Lay off her, yeah?”

Prosper stands up. They’re the same height. “Belomi,” he says.

Bellamy knows a couple things about Prosper. Here they are:

1) he is Moss’ brother  
2) Moss thinks he is literally the best thing in the entire world  
3) Most of Oshokru thinks that he is ‘unusually violent’  
4) Murphy trusts him

None of these things are very enlightening. None of them explain why Prosper is leaning over Raven’s work table in NewMecha, talking about -- he sorts through the Trigedasleng he just heard -- how he wants to build a bomb? What?

“You haven’t heard,” says Prosper.

“Um,” says Bellamy.

Raven glances up from her parabolic magnet assembly (at least, that’s what Bellamy _thinks_ it is). “Can you guys take whatever this is outside?”

Prosper pulls an arm around Bellamy, like they’re friends. “Yes,” he says. His voice is heavy. Bellamy sets down the wire/optics/copper. Raven doesn’t even look at it, just makes a shooing motion. “Let’s go for a walk, Belomiblake,” he says.

***

Ontari sends for Murphy by mid-afternoon via a messenger; he follows the messenger back to Polis, to the Commander’s quarters at the very top of the tower: he really is not into being trapped in a tiny box that is the elevator for that long, but he’ll get over it.

He only recognizes them as the Commander’s rooms because of the times he’s knocked on the door, yelling, “Clarke, it’s time to go!” and Clarke has emerged, ruffled and glowing.

He sits on the bed. He takes off his sweatshirt, lays it across the chair. Ontari appears not long after. She is covered in black blood. He’s standing before he realizes. “Christ,” he says. “Are you okay?”

She laughs at him. “There’s nothing standing in my way now,” she says.

Something fundamental has shifted between them. Something dangerous. Or maybe it’s always been that way, and he’s just now catching onto it.

“I am the last natblida,” she tells him.

“Holy shit,” he says, and there’s a grin tugging at his face, and part of him wants to be happy for her. Most of him thinks, _they’re just children_. A tiny part of him thinks: _Moss_. He shoves that one away from him, as far as possible.

“Do you trust me?” she asks, which is a pretty loaded question, Ontari, do you really think --

“Yeah,” he says, and she’s kissing him, hard and painful, shoving him backwards until his knees hit the bed and he falls onto it. She’s got one hand around both of his scarred wrists. Her knees are on either side of him, and she’s pressing down --

“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” she says.

He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t say it: _what way is that? Let me know so I can gouge my own eyes out, to make sure I never do it again._

“Stay still, _ripawar_.” And that’s definitely a bad sign. She’s tying his hands together, and then above him, to the headboard of the bed, maybe. And then her weight is gone.

She’s gone.

\---

They’re sitting outside, by the firepit. “There was an Ice Nation nightblood,” says Prosper, his voice ragged. “She demanded an audience with the others, as is her right, and she killed all of them.”

Bellamy sucks in a breath. “No,” he says, and then again. “No -- Prosper, are you --” and then finally. “ _Moss_.”

“Don’t say his name,” says Prosper sharply. “I took the Oath for revenge. I came here to see if you would take it too, and if Raven would help me make a bomb.”

“The oath?” Bellamy asks.

Prosper sighs, and pulls up the sleeve of his shirt: his shoulder has a half butterfly, outlined in red ochre. “When our parents were killed, we didn’t take the Oath, my brother and I. I will not make the same mistake twice. Blood must have blood.”

“I’ll help you in whatever way I can,” he says, though he doesn’t promise to take a Grounder oath that he doesn’t understand. “Prosper, I’m so sorry --”

“Don’t,” says Prosper. “The dead are gone, and the living are hungry.”

***

He can’t struggle. He can’t struggle, or risk more damage to his wrists. It’s fine. He will do whatever it takes to get out of this, as long as he ends up alive. Whatever the sacrifice he has to make, it will be worth it, as long as he is alive. He will endure everything, if he will come out of it alive.

Ontari returns, her face and hair washed of blood. She sits next to him on the bed, examines him. He’s doing his best to keep from hyperventilating.

“Do you trust me, _lukotwar?_ ” she asks again, like she’s genuinely curious.

He barks out something like a laugh. “Less and less,” he says, which is truth.

She matches his laugh, but it’s an imitation of his, a mirror. Has she always done this? He can’t remember. He can hardly think of anything. She has a knife in her hand -- He’s not going to get out of this alive. She’s going to gut him, and he came to her, and he let her do this. She presses a hand around his throat, and everything narrows to _that_ point of contact; he goes still. It’s hard to draw in breath.

His shirt is gone when she removes her hand. She must have cut it off. He’s saying something: _breja, breja, breja,_ over and over again.

“Heyo,” she says, easy. “No need to beg, lukotwar, I would never hurt you.”

She hasn’t hurt him. She hasn’t. Just made him uncomfortable. He’s okay, he’s okay, calm down, shhh. “As long as you swear,” she’s saying.

Her knifepoint is trailing down his ribcage. He makes a high, involuntary noise. “to serve _me_ and _mine._ ”

His breath is hitching. He can’t struggle. “You will kill Roan for _me_ and _I_ will redeem you. You will be _my_ lukotwar.”

“Yes,” he says, and she presses the knife in until he says. “Yes -- I swear.”

Ontari smiles. “Heyo,” she says, like it’s some kind of comfort. “That wasn’t so hard, was it, lukotwar?”

She cuts the rope tying him to the headboard. He doesn’t move. She shoves him off the bed; he lets himself fall. She douses the lantern.

He picks apart the rope around his hands with his teeth. He pulls on the sweatshirt he left on the chair. He goes down to the stables.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took forever to write and it's very long. here's an FAQ for this chapter
> 
> "why is the first snow so early after the beginning of fall?" the answer is that azgeda is farther north, and also, radiation
> 
> "that's such a bad plan, murphy"  
> you know what? murphy is not so great at plans when there is revenge involved. he gets too caught up in the outcome of what he wants to happen and misses key things, like "you could not even *lead the people* to not hang you from a tree, murphy" [nicoleanell, 2016]
> 
> wow okay it's very late and i might have missed some really basic typos, so please forgive me! next chapter: some comfort to go with your hurt
> 
> are you sad about this chapter! let me know via kudos, comments, and big warm blankets delivered to my apartment.


	7. take care of yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy Blake is a nerd who reads books during the apocalypse. Marcus Kane is a licensed medical professional.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> artistic license: medical stuff  
> also, #breakneck
> 
> obligatory comfort to counteract your hurt.

He takes the brown-and-white pinto mare that is Clarke’s favorite. She’s skittish around him, but he doesn’t really notice. His mind is blank. His hands are shaking. He rides for the dropship.

He should have paid attention. Horses aren’t easy; a mile and a half out, she’s startled by something across the path, something inconsequential, and he doesn’t notice, so it gets worse. She’s rearing up against an imagined danger -- He jumps.

He lands on his feet, but he steps on something that _cracks_ behind him, overbalances, hits his head on a tree, maybe? He blacks out, and then he’s conscious again, still standing. His horse is gone. His head is bleeding. His hair is full of blood. Ontari’s hair is full of blood. Stop. Start walking.

It’s dark. It’s past twilight now. He limps the best he can back to the dropship, to his shelter at the edge of camp.

Opens the door. Collapses onto his hands and knees. Here. This is his home, where he’s put his nicest things, his softest blankets, the bed scavenged from Arkadia, and here. He put Bellamy here.

How selfish. How short-sighted.

He doesn’t want to sully this for himself. He doesn’t want to have this memory in this place. He wishes he were unconscious. Bellamy’s gotten up, is kneeling by him now. He flinches. Can’t stop shaking.

Bellamy’s hand is on his back. It’s. It’s okay.

“Stop,” says Bellamy. “Stop, what’s wrong? Where’s your thermos?”

He hasn’t thought about his thermos in months. “I don’t know,” he says.

“Stay here,” Bellamy is already getting to his feet. “I’ll get something to ease your pain.”

He’s not in pain, really. He’s still bleeding. “No -- no. Don’t leave. I can’t deal with that.”

“What happened to you?” Bellamy asks, and he’s on his knees again, next to him.

“God,” says Murphy, missing the question. “I have to go back. I have to go back.”

“Tell them you won’t do it,” Bellamy suggests. He doesn’t _know_. He doesn’t know. “They’ve got nothing on you.” She’s got everything on him.

“I have to,” he chokes out. “I have to. God. I have to finish what I started.”

“Let me get you something for the pain,” Bellamy is saying, and he obviously wants to _do_ something, to fix the problem.

There’s no problem. He’s fine. He’s not hurt. He’s alive. Suck it up, Murphy.

Bellamy wants to do something for him? Then he’ll take what he wants.

“Let me sleep in your bed,” he says, rocking back onto his haunches.

“Sure,” says Bellamy instantly, and then. “What?”

“I don’t care if you’re there or not, I’m just not going to make it up the ladder,” he lies, crawling forward, collapsing up onto the bunk. Oof. He’s got more bruises than he bargained for.

Bellamy rises uncertainly. Murphy can’t stand it. He reaches his hand out, finds Bellamy’s wrist. Pulls Bellamy towards him. “Stay,” he says, but it’s a question. “Please.”

And Bellamy folds; lays down next to him. Murphy pulls the blanket over the both of them. His wrists hurt. He’s made of points of warmth against Bellamy; shoulders, hips, thighs. Bellamy hesitates, and then pulls him upward, so that his head is on his shoulder, Bellamy’s arm around him. “Is this -- is this okay?” he asks.

Murphy wonders if he’s ever done this with Clarke. With Roma. “Yeah,” he says.

“You want to talk about it?”

“Tell me about Oshokru,” says Murphy.

Bellamy is silent for one, two, three minutes. Murphy would think he had fallen asleep, if they weren’t so close. Then, finally: “Oshokru believes that you should walk lightly upon the world, leaving no mark; that in the end, the sea will wash all of us away. They don’t really say ‘your fight is over’; they say ‘ _teik meizen oso hod in oso dula op_ ’. That’s, um, ‘ _let the beauty we love be what we do_ ’.”

Murphy listens to Bellamy’s voice, lets it wash over him. Like the sea, like the ocean.

And his body is still his. His loyalty only belongs to himself: if Ontari is the best way to get his revenge, he will follow her. If that changes, he’ll change with it. He is still his own person; no one can hold command over him. He is alive. That’s all he needs.

Sleep has always been easy for him.

\---

In the morning, he wakes with Bellamy still by his side. Bellamy’s awake, though, sitting up, reading a book.

Yesterday feels like a bad dream. This is what he wants, right here, for the rest of his life. Here, at the dropship, this life he’s built for himself. That he’s helped build. Where he’s useful; needed. Coming home to Bellamy every night; waking up like this.

“You’re up?” asks Bellamy.

Murphy makes a noncommittal noise.

“You need to go to Medical,” says Bellamy.

Murphy burrows deeper under the blankets. Then: “Didn’t we already have this conversation?”

Bellamy doesn’t respond. Several seconds pass, and then -- Bellamy pulls the blankets off him. It’s bright and cold and it’s a cruel world out there. Murphy groans and sits up. “Okay, okay,” he says. “I’m up already.”

“Good,” says Bellamy. “Now take care of yourself.”

Easier said than done, Blake.

\---

There’s no way that he’s going to talk to Clarke’s mom, so he stakes out Medical until Kane is alone. “Let me get Dr. Griffin,” is what he says, because of course he does.

“Please,” he says, hopping up onto the table. “You know how I feel about moms.”

And like, Kane _does_ know. Caught between having lost Bellamy and the batshit of Arkadia, he’s spent a lot of time here at the dropship, and what do chancellors do when they’ve lost their sons? For the most part, they try to mentor young convicts. And he’s the youngest, most pathetic convict out there. So Kane doesn’t get Dr. Griffin.

“What happened?” asks Kane.

“Jumped off a horse, hit my head, so there’s a cut somewhere -- here,” he gestures to the general vicinity of his face. “Was tied up for awhile, kind of can’t feel my hands,” he adds as an afterthought.

“Let me see,” says Kane, so he holds out his palms. Kane frowns, and then: “The blood has pooled; if you keep using your hands for normal activity, they should be fine soon. Is that how you lost control of your horse? Where is she now?”

”She was skittsh; she ran off, I don’t know.” He doesn’t have any way to get back to Ontari. That’s a problem for Future Him to deal with.

Kane is examining his head now, pushing back his hair to get to the cut. “There’s been a conclave in Polis,” he says. “No entrance in or out. You have anything to do with that, Mr. Murphy?”

He won’t -- lie to Kane. He deserves that much. “They don’t call me _lukotwar_ for nothing,” he says.

Kane gives him a bitter, small smile. “You should be fine,” he says. “Just a tiny cut, there’s a lot of blood in head wounds. You’ll just need to wash it out of your hair.”

“Okay,” he says. “Thanks.”

“You sure about that, Mr. Murphy?”

Murphy shrugs. “I have to go back,” he says. “I have to finish what I started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Murphy's thermos is in a drawer in his room in Polis. It's in the bottom drawer. He will never find it again probably. r.i.p Murphy's thermos
> 
> anyhow, this is the end of my pre-written dialogue, and according to The Outline, there will be about ten chapters, but I also thought "I'll Be Good" would be about ten chapters, and look where we are now. 
> 
> next time on 'pain, penance, birthright': pain! penance! birthright! 
> 
> also i love marcus kane. further, 'pathetic' comes from roots which mean 'weak for having emotions'.
> 
> now exclusively accepting comments as tokens of your appreciation. please leave all hot chocolate at the door. thanks for reading! <3


	8. thanks for ignoring my bird problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bryan has a bird problem. Roan has a bird solution. Prosper is also in this chapter.

Roan shows up at their camp at about mid-afternoon. There’s not really a functioning gate: they don’t keep people out so much as there’s an edge where they stop trying to keep things neat. They’re under the protection of the Coalition; no one would dare to attack them.

“Except Ice Nation bastards, apparently,” says Prosper under his breath next to him.

“You know him?” asks Bellamy.

“That’s the Ice Nation king, Roan,” says Prosper. “He directed the attack against Oshokru, when I was a skat. He burned houses; people.”

“I’m sorry,” says Bellamy. Prosper alone on the beach, holding the hand of a crying Moss; Bellamy has only seen sunsets and sunrises there, orange into the horizon, but it’s not so hard to imagine fire in the sky, in the water. It’s always been clear that Oshokru is rebuilding from destruction, but he had always assumed a hurricane, or a typhoon.

“There is no need,” says Prosper. “I have forgiven him.” His voice is taut. It doesn’t sound like forgiveness.

“Murphy is doing something with the Ice Nation,” says Bellamy, realizing suddenly. “Roan’s probably here for him. I’ll go --”

“No,” says Prosper, holding him back by the shoulder, watching as the Ice King gets off his horse and talks to Kane. “What is Mofi doing for the Ice Nation? Tell me.”

So Bellamy does.

\---

Murphy’s fighting with Bryan, but honestly he’s not paying a lot of attention; full of anxiety, nerves, half-formed plans. Bryan’s talking to him, telling him about things, what’s been going on. He’s not paying attention to that, either.

“Thanks for ignoring my bird problem,” says Bryan grumpily, dodging Murphy easily.

“Sorry,” says Murphy, clearly not sorry. “What’s your problem with Raven?”

Bryan sighs noisily. “I was out for a walk, you know, as you do --” Prosper’s at the door. Bryan shifts his attention, and Murphy finally lands a punch. “Ow -- hey!”

“Sorry,” says Murphy again, still not sorry. “What’s up, Prosper?” he asks.

“The Azgeda king is here for you,” says Prosper.

Murphy goes still. Hey. Hey hey hey, he should have expected this, there’s nothing to worry about -- Bryan is looking at him with concern. Prosper is looking at him with suspicion. “Okay,” says Murphy, hoping both of them will back off.

It doesn’t work. Prosper steps forward and then slams him against the wall. Bryan is yelling behind them. Prosper holds him there by the shoulders. Pressure/fear/useless. Prosper has never hurt him.

Apparently he’s going to start.

“What are you doing with the Ice Nation, Mofi?” Prosper hisses. And. And. Moss.

“I am trying to _fix_ things.”

“Yeah?” says Prosper, a threat. He shifts his grip, holds Murphy with one hand, presses the other to his throat. Murphy chokes. “Or did you break them in the first place?”

He’s never had to defend himself against Prosper. He deserves this. He can’t stop himself from struggling.

The pressure’s gone. Bryan and Bellamy have pulled Prosper off him; Bryan is holding Prosper at bay. Bellamy is giving Murphy a once-over. He is alive, he is uninjured, he is guilty. Par for the course.

Bryan is looking to Bellamy. His leadership asserts itself. Good. Murphy’s sick of being in charge. He sinks against the wall. Above him: Prosper says, “Ai telon op no frag op em. Ai gada in koma.” His words are only for Bellamy.

“Sou nou,” snaps back Bellamy. “Em laik lukotwar.” Bellamy jerks his head at Bryan: “Get him out of here.”

“Ai laik no kom Skaikru,” snarls Prosper. “Breik ai au.”

They’re going to argue for awhile, it looks like. Bryan is holding his own against Prosper, and Murphy has no interest in what happens now, as long as it doesn’t involve him. He lets himself out.

_Be ready to attend to me._

He’s ready now.

\---

Roan is talking to Raven excitedly about ???? ???? ????. Mechanical stuff? Murphy has no idea and literally could not possibly care any less than he already does.

“I just really think that you need to degauss the dorsal subsonic isotope circuit,” Raven is saying, holding the the metal sphere out to the Ice King.

“I get what you’re saying,” says Roan, equally as excited. “But if you boost the hyperwave nanoshell chamber, it’s going to increase power to the graviton inhibitor.”

Raven laughs, like maybe that’s a joke. Roan laughs back, and they’re so easy together, simplified. And then Roan looks behind her, to Murphy, and his face closes off again. “Raven,” he says, and her name is foreign on his tongue. He takes her hand, kisses the top of it. “It has been a pleasure speaking with you.”

“Likewise, Ice King,” says Raven, and is she blushing? That’s weird and terrible. She nods to Murphy before leaving, another metal sphere tucked into her hand.

“What do you think you’re doing, lukotwar?” snarls Roan to him, and, well, at least he doesn’t waste time on the pleasantries.

Murphy forces his voice into coolness. “If you wanted Ontari dead, you would have killed her yourself. You don’t know what the Commander sent me to do: I don’t work for you.”

“Are you even going to kill her at all?”

Shifts his voice from calm to cocky. “You wanna watch it happen? Be there in two days’ time. Top of the tower. It’ll be a great show.”

Roan gives him a slow smile: “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, lukotwar.”

\---

He has a gun tucked into the top drawer of his desk. He pulls it out again, keeps it at hand.

He asks Octavia if he can borrow her horse. She’s like _Murphy, you’ve misplaced like six horses recently, I don’t want to leave another in your care, ask someone else,_ and? Who else at the dropship has a horse, Octavia? Literally nobody. He could ask Roan, maybe, but is that something he really wants to consider? Answer: It’s not.

So he gets Miller to cover him and he steals her horse.

He’ll make it up to her. Later.

He rides for Polis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ai telon op no frag op em. ai gad in koma - I wouldn't have killed him. I have honor.  
> sou nou - Don't.  
> em laik lukotwar - He is [lukotwar].   
> Ai laik no kom Skaikru - I am not of the Sky People  
> Breaik ai au - Free me/let me go.  
> Yu skaikru enuf - You're [around] Sky People enough
> 
> Bellamy and Prosper are both kind of referencing Murphy's place in the world as a lukotwar: he has the protection of Polis, of Clarke/the Commander. See ch6 of I'll Be Good for Clarke glossing over this! 
> 
> that's right Ice Nation only has Advanced Technology so that I can write lowkey Ice Mechanic 
> 
> also sorry about the Seriously Inconsistent Italics with regards to the trigedasleng, i have no excuses
> 
> thanks for reading! i accept comments, kudos, and cash dollars as tokens of your appreciation. or tokens in general.


	9. this was a stupid idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things come to a head (and to a heda).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning again for Unspecified Awful between Ontari and Murphy - marked with asterisks!

He takes Octavia’s horse to Polis; stables her in the barracks, goes in through the Flamekeeper’s quarters. The fucking coward Flamekeeper is there, the least terrible of the apprentices Titus had trained. His name is Costis. He doesn’t really talk to Murphy as he heads up towards the throne room. Good.

He spends a pleasant afternoon with Ontari as she conducts business or whatever in the throne room, in general, playing at being the Commander. Once, she steps forward, and instead of talking through her problem, she presses her thumbs into some guy’s eyeballs and _gouges_ them out. Washing her hands in a bowl brought to her, she looks at Murphy and laughs. “You recommended killing as little as possible,” she reminds him.

This is true. People are more useful when they’re alive. “We should talk about restraint,” he says instead. She gives him a smile, and it’s. Not good. When she finishes with her meetings or whatever, he follows her back to the Commander’s chambers; she demands wine and food brought to her.

She’s looking at him again. He could have not followed her. He could have bid her _good night_ and retired to his own room in Polis. He could have continued with his revenge without -- without this.

\---

After attacking Murphy at the dropship, Prosper won’t switch back to English. Bellamy’s sitting with him across one of the tables in the mess hall. Theoretically, Prosper is under arrest. In reality, they are building a bomb.

“Mebi em no rid op emo,” says Prosper suddenly. “Mebi em ron raun. Mebi heda taik em to citikru. Emo nowe don hin tag in em medo.”

“Stop,” says Bellamy. “I won’t give you false hope. Moss is dead.”

“No sei em tag in,” snaps Prosper. He shoves something towards Bellamy. The detonation key.

“It’s done?” Bellamy asks. Prosper nods. “You ready to go?”

“Sha.”

“Then let’s go. We can borrow Octavia’s horse.”

***

He doesn’t. He watches her shrug out of her overcoat, her shirt, then begin stripping herself of her pants. And -- She’s biting her bottom lip --

“Wait,” he says, and she pauses. “Wait, wait, wait. There’s -- there’s someone else. I’m sorry.” Emori: her hips, her laugh, her smile. He aches for her, even here, in this tower.

“Did you not pledge to serve me and mine?” she asks, and she’s touching his cheek, and he fights back the flinch, the shudder that runs through his body. “What other master could you have?”

“You are more beautiful, Commander,” he says, and she smiles, like a battle won. But his mouth won’t stop: “but she is more kind.”

And she leans forward into him, a kiss, agonizing, half-clothed, her hands on his shoulders, his throat. This is going to happen again. Okay. Okay. “Are you sure kindness is what you need, _lukotwar_?”

He can’t fight her. He won’t fight her. When she stops kissing him, he pulls away from her and removes his shirt. No use in having another one cut off. She stares at him; hungry. So. So. He takes his gun and puts it on the bedside table. He sits on the bed and takes off his socks.

Ontari picks up the gun. He can’t stop that flinch, but she doesn’t notice. “Were you going to redeem yourself, _ripawar_?”

“Don’t you trust me?” he asks. Keep her steady. “It’s for Roan.”

She handles the gun, flips the safety off, back on again, off. It’s easy in her hand, like she’s used one before. She aims it at him, cocks it. “You’ll wait until I command you,” she tells him.

“Of course,” he says, and she sets down the gun. She steps to him, has him by the shoulders, presses down. He goes easy. Lets himself. Willingly.

She ties his hands again: together, and above him.

This isn’t worth it. It has to be worth it. Moss is dead for this revenge. He has to go through with this, see it through to its endgame.

He can’t.

He can’t.

He has to.

\---

The next morning, when she comes for him, he’s struggling against the ropes that hold him to the headboard. As she comes closer, she realizes he’s trying to get a blanket on the far side of the bed over himself, using just his legs. She laughs, surprising herself a little. He looks up at her, hooded eyes resentful. “’s cold,” he tells her. Adorable.

She reaches over, unties him from the headboard. He sits up, lets his legs dangle over the side of the bed. He rubs his eyes. She takes his chin, forces his gaze upward to meet hers. There’s an intake of breath -- With her other hand, she fastens an iron collar around his neck. His eyes go unfocused: he lets out a breath of a word, _breja_. She kneels and cuts the rope between his hands. He rubs his scarred wrists, stares at her. He stands up, keeping his eyes on her: crosses to the chair where he folded his shirt last night. He pulls it back on, and then stares at her again, like a kicked puppy.

She hands him back his gun. He checks it over, then tucks it into his waistband. He pulls the loose chain through the fabric of his shirt, so that it rests on the outside instead of against his chest. He holds it in his hand: “You think this is needed?” he asks.

She lets him have part of a smile. “I’d never hurt you, _mokskwoma_. You don’t trust me?” Lets it sound like laughter. “It’s just to show my power over the Commander’s _lukotwar_.” He looks away. She tugs on the chain, just hard enough so that he has to step forward. “You’ll kill Roan today,” she tells him.

“Yeah,” he says, still searching her face.

She threads her hand into his hair, pulls hard. “What’s that?”

“Yes, Commander,” he repeats. When she lets him go: “I thought we were in this together.”

“We are,” she tells him, a reassurance. “But they don’t need to know that.”

\---

Murphy is gone. So is Octavia’s horse. It’s not hard to jump to conclusions. But revenge waits for no man: so they wrap the bomb in soft cloth, like a baby, and he keeps the key on him. They walk to Polis, and it’s not so hard, and it’s not so far, but it takes a long time.

They don’t talk on the way there. For the best, probably.

\---

When the time comes: Ontari is sitting regally on the throne, holding the chain in one hand; he stands to the side, trying his best to look inconspicuous. She hasn’t hurt him. Just made him uncomfortable. There’s been no blood.

He’s fine. He can take it.

The Ice King approaches her throne, removes his hood.

\---

They set the bomb at the base of the tower, and then get a safe distance back into the woods. Prosper is the one that presses the key.

Bellamy braces himself.

\---

He doesn’t look at Ontari. He looks at Murphy when he’s talking. Murphy hardly hears him. He steps forward. Takes out his gun. Shoots him in the head.

He falls.

Killing is the easiest thing he’s ever done. Ontari pulls at the chain, a reminder. He turns. He’s still holding the gun. She tugs the chain, harder. He chokes, just a little. The tower shakes, like a tremor has gone underneath it. Maybe he’s imagining things.

He shoots her, too. Point-blank.

There’s no blood.

\---

Bellamy and Prosper watch the tower, wait for it to fall. Nothing really happens.

“This was a stupid idea,” says Bellamy.

“Sha,” agrees Prosper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mebi em no rid op emo. Mebi em ron raun. Mebi heda taik em to citikrru. Emo nowe don hin tag in em medo. - Maybe he wasn’t asleep. Maybe he took off. Maybe the Commander took him to Citikru [with her]. They never found or named [identified] his body.  
> No sei em tag in - Don't say his name.  
> Sha - yes  
> mokskwoma - worm
> 
> two things in this chapter: the fucking coward flamekeeper's name and "you are more beautiful but she is more kind" are taken from my Favorite Book Series, which is the Queen's Thief series by Megan Whalen Turner
> 
> murphy was going to wreck octavia's horse too but blueparacosm changed my mind
> 
> I Have No Idea How Bombs Work
> 
> as always, thank you for your comments/kudos/tea recommendations. they mean the world to me!


	10. long live wanheda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a transitional chapter between Polis and the kefa badannes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey look! a Lexa POV chapter! nice.

The fucking coward flamekeeper is there instantly, which is _ridiculous_. “I thought you were with her,” he says, confused.

Murphy yanks at the collar still around his throat. “Does it look like I was with her?” The fear is starting to wane off, being replaced by anger. Easy, easy, Murphy. Don’t get carried away.

Costis reaches for him. “Let me get that for you,” he says.

Murphy takes a step backward. “Don’t touch me,” he says.

“I --” says Costis, and he’s still going for the collar, for his neck.

“I’ll fucking shoot you, too,” snaps Murphy, raising the gun. Costis backs off. Finally.

Costis steps away. “The Conclave is lifted,” he says. Turning to the nearest messenger, he says; “Take the news to the Commander.”

No. That will take forever. He wants this to be over now. “Stop,” he says, and his voice hardly trembles. “I’ll do it.”

“You can’t --”

“Are you going to tell me what I can and cannot do?” He’s not. “Get me a horse and travel provisions.” He feels too warm, exhausted, bloodless. “And a hot meal would be great.”

\---

He gets his hot meal. He gets his travel provisions. He gets his horse. He threads the chain from the collar to the inside of his shirt, so that he can feel it against his chest, his heart. It’s cold and heavy. He moves it above his long-sleeved shirt, underneath his jacket. That’s easier to ride in.

The horse’s mane is soft under his fingers. He misses Steltrona. He could go back for her. He could --

He could not do that.

\---

They watch the horse come out of Polis, leaving at full gallop. “Conclave’s over,” says Prosper, in English at last. Bellamy’s grateful for the reprieve. “The Ice Nation nightblood is either dead, or she’s lifted it.”

“Let’s go up and find out,” suggests Bellamy.

“No,” says Prosper, eyes distant. “Let’s follow that messenger.”

 _This can’t possibly go wrong_ , Bellamy thinks; but here: Prosper is sick with grief and Bellamy will stay with him until the worst of it is over. No one else will accept his comfort, and they have Moss’ death between them.

And Murphy: but that’s different.

\---

He’s never travelled this far alone. Always: with Octavia, or Lincoln, or Prosper, or Emori, or Clarke; two bodies alone underneath the skin of stars. Eventually, he realizes he can’t go much farther without passing out, so he finds a suitable clearing, ties the horse to a tree, and spreads out a bedroll. He knows all the motions, what to do. He dozes, on and off, in the cold, sitting up.

He dreams fitfully: of Pike, of the woman in red, of Monty: of Emori and Ontari, united against him: he dreams about fucking up worse than he has, he dreams of going through with his revenge, being able to take it through the long haul, heedless of the damage to his own person. He wakes up. He splashes his face with water from his pack. They’re just images. They’re just -- Slow your breathing, Murphy. Calm the fuck down. You can’t do this now. Chill out.

There’s usually someone here with him. He tucks the chain back under his shirt. Lets himself sink into numbness. Nothing hurts. He just needs to get through this.

Rides out as the night gives way to the sun, as the birds start shrieking again.

\----

The meeting, like most of the meetings that have gone on before it, is going poorly. Well, it’s not as bad as it was. Streisand is finally dead, so she doesn’t have to listen to his annoying voice anymore. It’s still very tense.

It’s no welcome thing when Aden comes to her side and whispers “ _Your lukotwar is here,_ ” and she looks up. Johnmurphy is here, which is inopportune but acceptable.

What’s not acceptable is what he does next, which is to cross the space to her, to shout “The false Commander is dead. Long live Wanheda,” and raise his gun. He’s tackled almost immediately; there’s a lot of shouting, very suddenly, and she needs to take control again.

“Get him out of here,” she tells them, and Caris gets him out. Clarke is standing, but she’s still waiting for Lexa’s command, so she nods, and Clarke follows.

“Your dog isn’t trained so well,” smirks Kespea, except he says it in underground Citisleng, like Lexa won’t understand it. Like she trained all her life for no reason.

Well. He did overthrow the leading rulers of Citikru with little more than a blunt axe and the thread of a promise. He must have some wits in there, _surely_.

She’d like to respond with a biting comment of her own, but: negotiations are a delicate business, and she knows when to push her luck. Anyhow, if they don’t finish this by today, she’ll kill him as well and wash her hands of the whole thing.

\---

They’re following the messenger on foot, but Prosper seems to know where they’re going despite the fact that they’ve lost him by now. It’s been silence for a long time, until Prosper starts talking.

“We didn’t know he was a Nightblood until he was thirteen,” he’s saying. Moss. “You’ve been to Oshokru, you know how it is -- he didn’t have cause to bleed until then. He was never a warrior; he was always too clean and too kind for that. I think he knew, before then, but he hid it -- didn’t want to cause grief to our parents, or to me. He shouldn’t have; we were all so proud when we found out. I mean -- everyone in Oshokru was, and I -- our parents were dead by then. We didn’t go to Polis until the year before last, and maybe it’s good that he hid it from us for so long -- he hated Polis the moment we stepped foot there. He was so homesick, Blake -- he cried every night, for the first month. We all knew he would never be Commander. He shouldn’t even have been there, that night.” Prosper sighs loudly, through his nose. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s not good to speak of the dead.”

“It’s fine,” says Bellamy, even though it really isn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did you catch the foreshadowing in this chapter? I hope so because that was the only thing I put real effort into
> 
> also, i'm coming up on a couple milestones for this series, so as a celebration, i am now taking prompts of stuff you'd like to see in this 'verse; alternate endings, drabbles, questions you'd like answered: let me know in comments or at my tumblr (icetastrophe). 
> 
> your comments, kudos, and slices of pie are literally the best things i could ask for in life. thank you. and thanks for reading! <3


	11. that's not up to you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murphy takes his revenge. The Commander negotiates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey there! sorry for the long wait. my computer did this thing where it doesn't work anymore, which has Wrecked my Entire Life
> 
> edit: sorry! the formatting is better now.

Lexa's guards take Murphy to one of the outbuildings not currently in use. When Clarke gets to him, they've taken his gun but left him mostly alone. He sits with his back to them, his hands folded in his lap, just staring. He looks up at her. 

He still hates her. He should: there's an iron collar around his throat, the chain tucked underneath his shirt. He says: "I'm not doing this again."

He was going to kill Lexa. Maybe. He raised his gun to her. Sitting here, he's vulnerable, exhausted, small. It's hard to believe he has the capacity to make a move against her, against the both of them: she remembers him, mostly, as the boy kneeling in her room, promising: _I'll be good._ Later, again, she almost lets him out of his promise, this contract: _I'll be good._

"That's not up to me," she tells him. "And it's not up to you."

He stands, then, and steps to her. He's grown taller, she realizes, during the summer. She doesn't flinch, doesn't back down. She won't. "I'm not doing this again," he repeats, and he hits her.

Open-handed, across the face.

There's an ugly expression on him, something she might call a snarl. There's no blood in her mouth. It wasn't that hard of a slap. 

"Are you done?" she asks, condescending, dismissive. Blood must have blood, and all that.

"No," he says.

And. Look. She didn't become Wanheda by fistfighting her way through problems. She's never killed anyone while they were still alive enough to fight back. She's not going to win any awards for her close combat skills.

He doesn't pull his punches.

It takes two of Lexa's guards to get him off her: their hands over his chest, pulling his arms back. They stay away from the collar: even if he has attacked the Commander of Death, he's still _lukotwar_ : untouchable. "Ow," she says, hardly an admission, standing, wiping the blood from her mouth.

He wrenches against the men holding him. "I want to talk to the Commander," he says. "Not you."

She tried to spare him this, but here: there is no better option.

\---

After Clarke leaves, they keep holding onto him. He does the thing where he relaxes into it and then tries to jumpscare them so he can slip out, but it doesn't work. Experts. Terrible. Someone else comes in and uses a set of bolt cutters on the collar's padlock: two snips. There's a catch, and there's metal on his collarbone: he yells. They don't let him go. Whatever, whatever. He can deal.

The padlock is pulled out, the collar taken apart at the seams. The fabric of his shirt bunches up as they pull out the chain. They get rid of the collar. Something else falls when they dispose of it: the guard? catches it in their hand. It's the necklace Bellamy gave him. He'd forgotten he was wearing it. They let him go, then; give him the necklace back. They both leave the room. He lets the air settle for one, two beats, and then opens the door. There's a guard stationed just outside, glares at him. He retreats.

His hands are shaking. The necklace has a clean cut through the leather. It'll be easy to tie back together.

He just beat up the Commander of Death herself. It wasn't even that hard.

His knots are fucking awful.

They took his gun.

He remembers the Commander from the woods, when he was tortured the first time, eons ago: _Keep trying. He'll break._ In Polis: _Mochof. Breja, lukotwar._ She'll hurt him to achieve her own ends, but he's seen her with Clarke: soft eyes and softer words shared between them. Stop. Just because the Commander loves somebody doesn't mean she'll be any kinder to him. So when she comes in, he stops messing with the necklace. He looks her in the eye. He speaks first. "Ontari and Roan are dead," he tells her. At least there's a little revenge. He takes what he can.

"Ontari _and_ Roan," she says, even-keeled. Same as him. "That wasn't your mission."

He doesn't have any reasonable explanation for that. "Things got. Out of hand." An understatement.

The Commander raises an eyebrow. "I can see that," she says.

"I'm not doing this again," he says. It's not a lie. He doesn't want to do this again.

"That's not up to you," says the Commander, and of course. It's not up to him. It's out of his control. "But we can negotiate your terms."

Okay. Alright. If things get bad like this again, he can just leave. He won't let them get this bad again. Ontari was -- Ontari was a mistake. He can just leave. "You have to finish the tattoo," he says, like he cares in the slightest. He just wants this to be done.

"You didn't do as I asked," says the Commander.

And. And. Murphy presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, considers his thumbs pressing into the soft palate of his jaw, and _wrenching._ It seems preferable to. This.

He takes a moment.

"Ontari is dead," he says, steady. "It's under three months. You didn't say anything else."

And. There's nobody else around for her to impress. There's no Clarke to love her kindness, there's no warriors to show her strength to. So when she says: "You've been treated poorly, and I am sorry for that. But you kill when and who I command. I will have you trained," she must mean it. It's for him.

He folds. He folds so easy. "You'll finish this tonight if you want me to stay as your _lukotwar_ on any kind of terms," he says.

The Commander nods. "This is acceptable," she says, which means something else was a bluff. He's too tired for this. "You will let Moss look at you?" 

What? "Don't fuck with me," he says, more exhausted than angry.

"Of course not," says the Commander, bemused. 

\--- 

He follows two of the Commander's warriors to a healer's? building, and the direct him to sit at a low table. A coffee table? Maybe. The Commander enters a moment later, watches with little interest as a healer spreads out the necessary tools onto the surface of the table.

He has to take off his shirt again. No. He removes his jacket, and the sweater above it, but the shirt under that is slightly too big, so he pulls his arm out of the sleeve and out the top, so the shirt hangs weirdly underneath his armpit. That's. Fine. The healer looks at him strangely, and then presses against his shoulders. Down, boy.

Breath catches in his throat. He feels like he's choking. There's no obstruction. He's over this. Come _on._ He fixed everything. It's about to be over. Just ride it out. Just. Keep breathing.

It's more than he can manage.

The Commander is next to him. The healer has stepped to the side, is making disappointed/soothing noises, maybe. It feels like there's a lot of things going on, except everything is still. It's cold. The Commander is going to kill him, is going to thread her fingers through his hair and _pull,_ is going to -- Stop. Just stop. Chill the fuck out, Murphy. Nothing is happening to you.

The Commander is talking to him. He can't hear anything. A sharp pain against his shoulder. The healer again, maybe.

Hang on. He's fading out. Unconsciousness is coming for him. 

Honestly, it's kind of a relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter brought to you by the new Run River North album which is gr9
> 
> also, i work in film, and my Directorial Debut just came out! you can watch [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uGdb0mJUbDA)!
> 
> coming up: the end of this fic and the beginning of Book Three, hesitantly titled 'relentless'. also, a couple "different ending"-type stories where I write alternate endings to different choices Murphy could have made. 
> 
> as always, your comments and kudos mean the world to me. literally.


	12. as long as you're free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All roads lead to the City.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey there! thanks for sticking with me this long.

He wakes in a bed, shirtless. Fear.

_Stop. Close your eyes again. Take a deep breath: one, two, three. It's fine. You're home. You're at the dropship. Sunlight is streaming in through the window. There's work to do. You always sleep with your shirt off. It's fine._

Fools himself for the time it takes to calm down. Sits up. Somewhere in Citikru. He's alone. He's in a building, in a room, maybe a bedroom. His shirt is draped over the back of a chair. His ribs give a different twinge of pain, and he looks down. A couple of his cuts have been stitched up. Okay. Checks his shoulderblade. A completed concentric circle. Redeemed, at last. Checks once, twice, three times, to make sure he isn’t cuffed to the bed. He isn’t. Pulls his shirt back on, and then his sweatshirt. No sign of his jacket. It's not that cold here, so that's okay. 

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. No. He didn’t. Is it the next day? Does it really matter? How long has he been out?

The Commander knocked him out because he couldn’t fucking keep it together. It was probably for the best. He deserved it. Kind of wigs him out, still. 

There's a common room of sorts outside the bedroom. The Commander is there, meditating, maybe, like Jaha. Weird. She opens her eyes when he pokes his head through the door. "Are you ready for negotiations, or would you prefer to rest more?" she asks.

Might as well get this over with. "Now is fine," he says.

She nods, and begins to stand. He takes a seat across from her. "Would you like anything to drink?" she asks. He shrugs. It doesn't matter to him. To one of her handmaidens? servants? bodyguards?, she says "A pot of black tea, hot, please," and they nod and leave. "Lukotwar. What terms would you like to set?"

"I want help for the dropship - for Skaikru - for preparations against winter. Insulation, warm clothes, blankets." He swallows. It's too much. He should have downgraded it. This was too risky.

"This is acceptable," says the Commander. "Anything further?"

Holy shit. Time to push his luck. "Food and supplies sent to the dropship weekly," he says.

The Commander's mouth twitches. "Once a month," she says. "And you will learn Trigedasleng."

He scowls. "I'm no good at learning," he tells her.

"You learned to ride a horse," she says, but like, that wasn't learning, that was doing. "You learned well enough how to survive on the ground."

He keeps scowling.

"You will attempt to learn Trigedasleng," she revises. "If your attempts are found to be _lacking,_ all deliveries will stop. Final offer."

He looks away. He wants out of this stupid building. He wants out of this stupid conversation. He hates being told _you're not living up to your full potential, Mr. Murphy, you could be doing so much better_ , and it feels like that's what's happening. Except she's playing with much higher stakes. "Fine," he says. 

"Acceptable. Whatever. I'm leaving now. You know where to find me."

He narrowly avoids running into the handmaiden/bodyguard coming back with tea. He escapes into the broader expanse of Citikru.

 

\---

Everything in this place is dust; dust and ruin. The horse makes huge snuffly horse sounds as Prosper ties it to a post. Bellamy feels rough from the ride over: just because he can ride a horse doesn’t mean he wants to, or that he should. “What do you want to do now?” he asks Prosper.

“I don’t know,” says Prosper, which, okay, good job at revenge. “The Commander is here. It would be right to kill her: her absence is what caused the Ice Nation night blood to enter Polis.”

“Okay,” says Bellamy, who has no love for Lexa.

Prosper looks at him, dismissive. “I can’t _kill the Commander_ ,” he says, like, _obviously._   And then, considerate: “You could, though.”

“No,” says Bellamy. “It’s your kill, Prop.” He’s not the one who took the oath.

Prosper’s face twists. He’s starting to say something else, but then: behind them, a noise? Someone approaches. They pull the hood from their head: it’s Murphy. He holds his hands up to show he means no harm, but Prosper still steps forward, hand going for his knife.

“Come with me,” says Murphy, flat, heedless of Prosper. He flicks his eyes towards Bellamy; short, unreadable. He turns and heads a different way altogether. 

Bellamy sets a hand on Prosper’s shoulder. Wordless; they both follow Murphy.

—

Murphy takes them to the low building he had discovered earlier; where the Nightbloods are training. Six of them. Six of them are still alive. Six of them came with the Commander.

He stares at Prosper as he scoops Moss up in a hug, and speaks to him in Trigedasleng. And then Moss bursts into tears, and Prosper’s crying too, and he watches them. And he still kind of wishes he wasn’t here.

Bellamy is beside him. A warm, rough hand settles at the base of his skull. He stays as still as he can. It’s. It’s kind of nice.

“You said you’d fix things,” he says. “And you did.”

Like that had been any kind of plan on his part. “Yeah,” he says. “But I broke them in the first place. I don’t think —“ The Commander and their negotiations; Clarke’s blood. “I don’t think they’ll ask me to do anything for them again any time soon.”

“As long as you’re free,” Bellamy says. “That’s all that matters.”

He’s anything but. He doesn’t want to talk about this. He doesn’t want Bellamy to know. “Yeah?” he says, condescending, bitter. He doesn’t mean to. He just. “That what you learned in Oshokru?”

“I miss a lot of things,” says Bellamy, not really answering him, but not looking at him either. “I missed you.”

And that night, he sleeps underneath the skin of stars again, with Bellamy; with the ruined city in his past, with bright things in his future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OF COURSE MOSS IS FINE  
> if he wasn't prosper totally would have murdered the heck out of murphy, and then Where Would We Be  
> i mean i guess moss isn't fine per se he did just learn that six of his friends are dead but Whatever. he's alive and uninjured.  
> also lexa would never leave her entire crop of nightbloods in polis what kind of terrible plan is that what if something happens to them
> 
> also. i tagged this series bellamy/murphy and here we are, 9 deaths, 2 kisses, 3 months and 48k words later and Murphy and Bellamy are finally in a place where they might kiss a little bit. Maybe. or they could just not talk about it ever
> 
> COMING UP: Book Three: 'relentless'. a summary: Murphy gets a teacher and Raven is also in this one. more hurt. more comfort. emori and mbege will also be in this one! also, if you want to beta for this, lmk at icetastrophe.tumblr.com . pros: this series will have less typos. cons: you have to talk to me, idk
> 
> LASTLY: you are the best readers i could ever ask for. yr comments light up my heart and make my stars shine. thanks. catch y'all on the flipside!


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